


And You Shall Know Us By The Trail Of Our Dead

by ruric



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-22
Updated: 2009-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:45:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag for SGA episode 4x03 Reunion - Ronon mourns the loss of his friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And You Shall Know Us By The Trail Of Our Dead

They come for him two days after their return to Atlantis when the physical wounds have begun to heal, becoming little more than a sharp intake of breath when he overstretches and scabs that pull his skin tight and itch.

The three of them show up in his doorway, and it’s no surprise Teyla’s the one taking the lead, flanked by John and Rodney.

He hasn’t slept since they got back, and he wonders if it shows, but every time he closes his eyes he sees their faces, Tyre, Ara and Rakai, and the death of hope reborn is ashes on his tongue.

“It is common among my people to have a ceremony to mark the passing of friends,” Teyla begins.

For a moment he hears nothing beyond the roar of sound in his head, words of denial tumbling in his skull and he wants to yell at her, at them, that this isn’t what they do on Sateda. 

They don’t honor _shadukul_...traitors. 

If he were home everything they owned would’ve been cleansed and sold, money raised in restitution and paid to those damaged by their actions. Their bodies would be burned, their ashes scattered – no marker for their resting place, no one to remember. They would be unmade, removed from existence and memory.

But he’s not on Sateda. 

Sateda’s gone, his family’s gone, his friends are dead – even if they died long before their bodies did. He’ll never go home and the few hundred of his people who remain are scattered. The customs of his planet will die and be forgotten.

The words lodge in his throat and pile up behind his teeth until he’s choking on them. 

He can’t force them past his lips, not when Teyla’s looking at him with sorrow and pity and Rodney’s quick glance is taking in every part of the room except where Ronon is standing. And John? John’s watching him with the intensity you’d give to an enemy or ally you’re not quite sure of. 

So he holds his words and nods, see them all relax a little and agrees they’ll do it tomorrow.

Teyla steps forward, places her hands on his shoulders and leans her forehead against his - it’s about the only comfort he can accept with any grace right now - and he’s relieved when they leave him to his memories. 

He tries to escape them by going for a long run to the East Pier, circling walkways before dropping down to the open area to run by the ocean hoping for distraction. The steady rhythm of his feet hitting the deck, the harsh rasp of his breath, do nothing more than play a counterpoint to the words Tyre had spoken in the Wraith facility. “ _We had a choice. To die with the past or live for the future._ ” Tyre, Rakai and Ara had made their choice and it turned them to Wraith worshippers. 

Ronon made his own choice to live when he left Tyre behind.

* * *

The ceremony the next afternoon is small and simple. 

The team are there with Carter, Lorne and Zelenka and they’ve brought one of their holy men along who says some polite and pretty words about forgiveness and being received into a place called Heaven.

Ronon was never a particularly obedient son for the Gods of Sateda and the Wraith and the running have stripped away what little faith he had left. So he nods at the pretty words, tries not to loom over the rather round, rather pale and very nervous looking holy man and shakes his head when Teyla asks if he’d like to say anything.

She says a short Athosian blessing which is close enough to how they did this on Sateda that he has to blink and swallow hard.

Afterwards he accepts their handshakes and awkward condolences until there’s only him and John left.

“Come with me.”

The curt snapped off words are close enough to an order that he follows without paying much attention to where they’re going. He can live remembering Ara’s face, her fingers clutching at her throat, he can even live with the memory of the heat and stickiness of Rakai’s blood on his hands. 

Tyre’s still there, in the Wraith facility, no longer Satedan or friend but Ronon left him there. For that alone he wants to make someone bleed. He’s just not sure whether he wants the someone to be the Wraith, Tyre or himself.

His feet carry him forward without conscious effort and it’s only when the door hushes softly behind him, lights glowing blue as it’s set to privacy mode, that he realises John’s brought them down to the gym.

“Get it out of your system.”

He looks at John, holds his gaze, and tries for the easy way out.

“There’s nothing to get out.” 

It’s partly true. There’s nothing inside but a hollow emptiness and the desire for revenge.

“Right.”

John tosses him a set of two staffs and he catches them rather than let them fall and shifts to take up a defensive stance. John comes after him and within two blows he knows this is for real. There’s no quarter given in John’s attack.

He lets John back him around the gym, a flurry of defensive moves keeping the staffs away from his body until John twists in a move that’s all Teyla and the wood lands hard against his arm and thigh.

“They betrayed us...me.”

“I know.”

John comes at him again, lands a strike to his upper arm, but he ducks and twists, smacking one staff across John’s back, hard enough to make John stumble even though he pulled most of the power on the blow.

“They were Wraith worshippers.”

There’s anger and revulsion in the words he spits out but he wonders if John can hear the fear underneath.

“I know.”

They’re both breathing hard now as they close again in a flurry of exchanged blows. One catches Ronon across the knuckles, numbing his fingers and he drops the staff. He spins, elbowing John hard enough in the gut to make him fold over struggling for breath. 

Ronon dances back and out of reach listening to the rasp of John’s breath.

“They were my friends...and I left them behind.” 

“You didn’t know they’d survived the cave in.” 

“Don’t...”

John might be saying the words but he leads men and he knows what decisions can cost.

“If I’d stayed...”

“If you’d stayed you’d’ve died...or become what they did.”

His roar of denial bounces off the walls and John barely has time to get the staffs up to guard his face before Ronon closes beating against his defence driving John back across the gym. John manages to traps Ronon’s staff and he has to let it go or break his wrist. 

He drops it, reaching instinctively for the knife buried in his hair, body leaning forward to pin John against the wall, knee sliding between his legs, hips pushing in, bright metal pressed across John’s throat to keep him there as John’s staffs clatter to the floor.

He can smell John, smell the sweat and he looks into eyes that hold no fear – just trust and understanding.

“I betrayed you. I left.”

He closes his eyes because he doesn’t understand why they haven’t asked him to leave. 

He turned his back on Atlantis, on his team, on John because Tyre, Rakai and Ara showed up and weren’t welcomed with open arms. A history between the four of them that he doesn’t think he could ever begin to explain.

John’s fingers close around one his dreads, pull hard until his eyes sting and the whisper of breath is warm against his mouth.

“You trusted your friends. You’re the only one blaming yourself for that choice.”

He blinks away the memories of the times they saved each other’s lives, of Ara’s mouth closing on him, the strength of Rakai’s arms supporting him, of the heat of Tyre’s body wrapped around him. They’d lived and laughed and loved together, fought too and now they were all gone.

John isn’t the enemy and Ronon won’t make him bleed, but he can take his rage and sorrow and give it to John.

* * *

Afterwards John’s fingers are tracing the row upon row of small triangles tattooed on his arm each one a memory of a friend lost.

“One of the Marines has a kit.”

He turns to look at John, his eyes gritty with exhaustion.

“Tattoo kit - he could add to that if you want,” John’s chin tips to indicate his arm. “You don’t have to forgive them. But you can honor who they used to be.”

“Maybe.”

The weight of John’s body sprawled over him grounds him and he’s ready to let sleep claim him for the first time in days.


End file.
